Page 125 of Death's Daughter
Nova pauses, a nasty gleam in her eyes. “Or is itboyfriends? Lust boy was awfully quick to get on his knees for you.”
I stare at her.That’swhat she wants to talk about? “Are you… jealous?” I can’t keep myself from asking, disbelief ringing out.
Nova narrows her eyes at me, her cheeks flushing pink. “You know in my day, we had a word for girls like you.”
Oh, lovely. Antique internalized misogyny.“Lucky?” I offer innocently. Fuck her and her outdated standards. She’s wrong, of course, and my love life is none of her business, but whatever keepsher talking. I’ll make up scenarios so steamy and tangled up, she’ll bust a vein in her forehead.
I shift so I’m blocking Nova’s view of Chessa. Tucking one hand behind my back, I flick my fingers at her in a gesture that I hope she understands.Go. Get out of here.
Seething, Nova charges forward into my space. But I hold my ground. Behind me, I hear the gentle whir of plastic wheels on the tile floor. Chessa’s putting distance between us without drawing attention to herself by running. Good. Smart.
“Why?” Nova snarls. “Why did he choose you?”
I’m confused. “Who, Devon?”
Nova laughs, but it’s a harsh, ugly sound. “Weak and stupid, too. No!” she snaps. “Death.”
Ah. So it is jealousy, but more akin to sibling rivalry. I can work with that.
“He generates another spawn. Fine.” Nova throws her hands up, and I work not to flinch. “He’s bored easily, I suppose. But to chooseyouas his successor? I thought maybe you had some hidden aptitude. But you’re not more powerful than I am.” She scoffs at the idea. “Thatwas proof enough.” She waves her hand in the general direction of campus, indicating the graveyard and our altercation, presumably. “Is it because you secured alliances with spawn from his enemies? I could have done that.” Nova gives me a sneering up-and-down look, clearly suggesting the kind of tactics I used to secure said alliances.
Now that pisses me off. “Maybe Death just likes me better.”
“Likes to control you, perhaps,” she says with a dismissive wave. “But what kind of legacy is that for him? When I’ve been here the whole time. Waiting. He promised he would come back for me.”
Her consternation seems genuine, as does her giant blind spotto her own behavior. Why would Death choose someone who is clearly gunning for his role? She seems to think her ambition is a qualification rather than a disincentive. As if defeating him is the only way to get him to admit that he’s proud of her, or something. Oof. I am so not the only fucked up daughter of Death.
“I have no idea why Death does anything,” I say. “He’s kind of an asshole. Dropping in and out of my life at random points.”
“He didn’t raise you?” she asks, brow furrowed.
I shake my head.
“So you don’t even know him? You don’t know what happened to—” She clamps her mouth shut abruptly, cutting herself off.
I lean against the nurses’ station, hoping it looks casual. I have an idea, a really stupid horrible idea. I’ve only got one shot at this. I need to keep her engaged as long as possible, but still strike first. “We should talk about it, all of it,” I say. “Let’s just step outside. Get away from all these distractions.”
For a moment, she seems startled, as if she’s forgotten what we’re in the middle of and where we are. But then she looks genuinely amused. “Really? You think I’m going to fall for that?”
Impatience bites at me, taking chunks of my forced calm with every gulp. “You’re strong. But even you can’t survive a bullet to the head.” At least, I’m pretty sure. “The humans are going to send everything they’ve got to stop you, even if they don’t understand what they’re up against.”
“Better, then, to stay where I have so many hostages.” She flicks her fingers toward the patient rooms before turning her attention back to me. “It doesn’t have to be complicated. No one else has to die here. You’re going to surrender. Let me take what I need from you. If you give willingly, it’ll be enough to take down—” She stops, her gaze jerking to something behind me. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Chessa. Shit.
Nova starts to lift her hand.
Now.
Our Beecher freshman self-defense training included a mini-session on active shooters. What to do if you’re in a situation where you’re in close proximity to a shooter and you can’t run or lock down.
I had similar training in high school, which, in general, sucks as a statement on the human world. In this case, though, it might be useful. Nova might not be wielding an automatic rifle, but the idea is the same—disrupt her concentration, make it harder for her to attack.
I chuck the visitor sign-in plexi at Nova’s head, followed immediately by the clipboard.
Automatically, Nova backs away, throwing her hands up to protect her face. It’s an instinctive override, hardwired into the human brain. And we are still partly human at least.
I can’t tell what Chessa’s doing, nor can I look back. I’m hoping she’s taking the opportunity to run. I continue with the barrage of everything I can reach—an overstuffed pen cup, a giant mug, a metal tray of some sort—and close in on Nova.
